The de Valery Code Read Free Page B

her.
    “Let’s move to the table.” He already had several manuscripts out, including a text written in medieval Welsh that he’d been translating. He hesitated, wondering if she would hand him the book, but she didn’t.
    She went to his work area and set the manuscript down. Rhys moved to stand beside her. He caught the scent of apples and honey and forced his attention to what she was doing, instead of at her directly.
    Once it was out of her grasp, he could finally see the book in its entirety. Glorious illustrations emblazoned the edges of the pages, visible only while the book was closed. The title had been stamped on the front, but what would have been gilt at one time had worn away from centuries of dirty fingers and haphazard care. He just made out the letters:

    The Ballads of Sir Gareth

    Excitement pulsed through him. They hadn’t revealed the title in their letter. If they had, he would’ve jumped on his horse and ridden straight for Gloucester—and likely passed them on the way. If this book was what he thought it could be . . . His name would become as synonymous with the study of medieval texts as his father’s.
    Rhys reached for the tome, but she flattened her palm atop the cover and turned to face him.
    Her gaze was guarded, her hold on the book protective. “You must be gentle.”
    Irritation dampened his enthusiasm. “Look around you. I deal with manuscripts like this every day. My hands have been thoroughly cleansed in preparation for touching this, though if its condition had been poor, I would’ve donned gloves. Do you take the same precautions?”
    Her eyes widened slightly, and he felt a moment’s validation.
    “Now, may I please look at it?” Rhys kept his tone even, though his pulse was racing. If this book was authentic . . .  
    She pushed it toward him slowly.
    He settled himself in a chair at the table and brought the book in front of him. “Please sit.” He didn’t look at her, but knew there was a chair to her right. She dragged it closer and sat beside him.
    With a silent prayer, he opened the cover. He lightly ran his fingers along the edge of the page. The workmanship was exquisite. This had to be the book he thought it was, written by the scribe he suspected. The formation of some letters was similar to his, if not identical. More importantly, the illustrations were reminiscent of a second book, but he’d only viewed it once and that had been three years ago, just before his father’s death.
    Rhys turned his head and met her searching gaze. “How much do you want for it?”
    She cocked her head to the side, her hands folded primly in her lap. “How much is it worth?”
    This book alone was an excellent specimen of medieval illumination and worth a decent sum. But if he could get his hands on the other book and put them together, the value was incalculable. He didn’t want to get ahead of himself. He offered what the book was worth on its own. “Twenty-five pounds.”
    Her mouth turned down—not a frown exactly, but an expression of disappointment. He couldn’t help but stare at her pink lips for what was probably a moment too long.
    “That’s not a paltry amount,” he said.  
    “No,” she said slowly, wariness creeping from every corner of the word. “However, I was hoping. . .” She reached out and tried to take the book. “Perhaps coming here so hastily was a mistake.”
    He couldn’t let her leave with the manuscript. “No, it wasn’t.” He gently rested his palm across the page, as she’d done with the cover. “I have the impression the book belongs to your aunts—they didn’t even mention you.”
    “Yes, it belongs to them.” She pressed her lips together, which accentuated the dimple in her chin. “I should’ve waited for my aunt to feel better before coming. This isn’t my decision to make.”
    He didn’t believe her. She’d come with the intent of striking a deal. If she didn’t have the authority to make the decision, why would she